


Took the Stars From Our Eyes

by runicmagitek



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Loneliness, Long-Distance Relationship, Pre-Canon, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/pseuds/runicmagitek
Summary: Somewhere in the Downside, he watched the same stars meandering the heavens. It wasn’t a warm embrace or his whispers lost in her hair, but it was enough to rouse her each morning.Tariq wanders and Celeste waits. It's the fate they agreed to - visiting one another for fractions of their lives. But one day he returns and he has a plan.
Relationships: Celeste | The Gate Guardian/Tariq | The Lone Minstrel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Took the Stars From Our Eyes

The silence didn’t bother her. Not at first. Without chaos stirring, she discerned the delicate threads of her thoughts. She valued that self-imposed solitude; Celeste’s patience was non-existent on a good day and not to be tested by strangers and heretics.

It faded, though—the brilliant sheen accompanying new experiences. She basked in her duties, as sparse as they were, until she achieved impeccable alignment. Celeste smiled. Such perfection was elusive by other means. But she tuned her mandolin for the millionth time and the same cold wind greeted her from her lonely perch. She forgot to smile, forgot the sublime majesty she deemed within the Downside.

She promised to uphold this position. They both did. It was the only way to see each other.

Every reminder hitched her breath. Two options had been presented: an eternity of boundless pleasures without him or a solitary indenture to the Rites for fleeting moments whenever the sun and moon aligned. He insisted there was a third path. Celeste resigned herself to her fate.

“ _What else exists for beings like us?_ ” she had asked him millennia ago.

She memorized the gentle ebb and flow of his voice—nothing their instruments mimicked. “ _We are but stars and stars never linger. They move, Celeste._ ”

Dry amusement graced her smirk. “ _Are you suggesting we escape fate_ _’s design?_ ”

Pale eyes glowed in the twilight, inches from her. Awe swelled in his gaze, as if the Scribes were beneath her. Blasphemy. The luxury of choice wasn’t _meant_ for them. Why humor the idea?

“ _I_ _’m suggesting,_ ” he murmured, “ _we not deny ourselves of the possibility._ ”

Whatever he meant failed to resonate in Celeste, though the tender quality of his voice soaked into her soul. She remembered it in those long stretches while the starry skies kept her company. Somewhere in the Downside, he watched the same stars meandering the heavens. It wasn’t a warm embrace or his whispers lost in her hair, but it was enough to rouse her each morning.

Celeste hummed random melodies while she waited, swapping verses and rhymes until the lyrics flowed. Songs of her surroundings were numbered, the words growing stale on her tongue. A sigh escaped Celeste and her head dropped. Years crawled by, the only indication of time entrusted to the rise and fall of the sun and the fresh faces in each Triumvirate. Tariq was the single constant.

He brought stories along with the Triumvirates—tattered tales stitched together from unsavory experiences in the Commonwealth. Celeste grew fond of them, not for their illegal undertones, but for the gems nestled within. It was the rustic tavern meant for a bar fight. It was the lush silks adorning a body amidst a murder. It was everything she devised in her ballads when others cared only for a pretty tune to fill the silence. She fixed wide eyes onto Tariq as he recited tale after tale from perfect memory. Little nuggets of lives they cherished vicariously.

They were reminders of life beyond Mount Alodiel, past the Downside and even the Commonwealth. She recalled those details often; she dreamed of a million lives spent with Tariq, savoring what others took for granted.

There had been a particular story Celeste was most fond of. A curr told Tariq of a festival celebrated with floating lanterns and colorful explosions. She wrinkled her nose at first, but he likened the explosions to the stars graced with mobility. Tariq strummed his lute and delved into storytelling. They were a cluster of stars, these explosions, unable to contain their joy. They broke free and sprouted wings to fly as they saw fit. They squealed with glee, the elation crackling through the skies. The overwhelming sensation flooded them with a spectrum of colors. Then they fizzled out of existence—by their freewill—and each spectator memorized the dazzling display.

Like every tale of Tariq’s, Celeste wallowed in the beautiful imagery.

“ _I_ _’d like to see it someday,_ ” she had mused out loud.

Tariq lifted his face to meet hers, idly strumming a minor scale. “ _Would you?_ ”

She nodded, a hint of a smile breaking across her stoic face. “ _I would._ ” Holding a breath, she placed a hand over his. “ _With you._ ”

Fingers ceased to strum. The subtle touch bestowed a chill Celeste had forgotten. What if she gripped his cloak and jerked him close enough to smother his gentle lips? What if they abandoned their roles to head wherever the stars weren’t needed? A pleasant lie, that. The thought alone was enough to stir the Scribes and reassess the shackles placed upon them.

Still, perhaps there _was_ an end, when neither Tariq nor herself were necessary to maintain the Downside and the frivolous games. Maybe he could do more than weave stories; he could show her, experience it with her.

Maybe.

Until then, it was but a lullaby Celeste used to ensure dreams awaited her when no one crested the horizon in pursuit of the final Rite.

She sighed. Purples and blues bled through the sky. Stars twinkled into view, none of which spoke of anything she didn’t know. No Rites were destined that evening. No Exiles were present to declare their names, awaiting the promise of freedom. Celeste frowned and lowered her gaze. Was it freedom if they returned to the world which imprisoned them to begin with? Even if their accusers forgave their past sins, it didn’t erase the lies and shadows seeped into the Commonwealth. If Tariq’s stories were true, then what they deemed to be freedom was but a temporary blip, like a star flickering bright before dying.

Celeste clutched her mandolin, fiddling with the frets. If given the chance, Celeste longed to soar and abandon her structured life. No returning to her origins, no looking back to the Downside. She wanted something to call her own without compromise. Only her rules mattered. That’s what it meant to be free, right? To be _truly_ free. Anything else was sugar-coated poison.

Blue eyes regarded the horizon again with a hint of nostalgia. Not tonight, but another time. Celeste clung to those rare moments they breathed the same air together. The lull between expanded, almost suffocating her. How much longer were they to uphold this charade? Without him and his soft words and kind heart, she feared her spirits smoldered to ashes and turned frozen. She longed to smile and laugh again like the bright star she was.

Celeste banished the thought with another sigh. Pivoting from her vantage point, she deemed the night fruitless and thus the gate didn’t require its guardian. Almost. A silver blur peeked over the horizon. She blinked. The cold air skittered in her throat. No eclipse hung in the heavens and yet he was here.

She curled her fingers into the neck of her mandolin, oblivious as to whether she clawed the polished wood and fine metals. She didn’t blink as he approached, casual steps bringing him into view. The wind filled his cloak and teetered on his hat. No Blackwagon wheezed behind him. Perhaps this was an illusion, a side effect from her vigil turned confinement. Celeste hummed a sharp note and what magic imbued her tongue banished whatever tricks veiled the premise. Nothing shimmered out of sight. It was Tariq and he was real.

And alone.

“Have you grown mad, lone minstrel?” Celeste said, raising her voice from her lofty spot.

In one fluid motion, he swept off his hat and bowed gravely before her. He always did. “I would love to debate the intricacies of linguistics in that regard, but I fear now is not the time.”

Celeste raised a brow. Despite their distance, he spoke as if his lips were inches from her ear. His whispers filled the Fall of Soliam, if not all the Downside, and radiated warmth in her core. Steadying her breaths, she discarded the thousands of musings begging for him.

“I must agree,” she said. “The stars hold no Rites this evening.”

He tilted his head. “They do not.”

“And yet you are here.”

Tariq nodded. “Forgive me, had there been a more ideal opportunity, then I would not be here, but circumstances dictated that I sought you out.”

She drew in icy air, flicked out her tongue to moisten her lips, and lengthened her spine. “Speak your name and intentions if you are to pass through the gate.”

It wasn’t necessary. She was privy to the role he played in this forsaken world. They agreed to this arrangement, after all. But he showed up unannounced and in what wisdom she garnered over the centuries, she questioned what to trust if the stars didn’t mark it as foreordained.

Without hesitation, he secured his hat and strolled towards the gate. “My name is Tariq,” he offered, softer than the breeze, “and I intend to aid an Exile who may be the key to freeing us.”

Celeste’s eyes widened. She lost track of her fantasies involving elusive freedom, to leave with him hand-in-hand. It bled with reality, then dissolved to a jaded whisper in the back of her mind. Sometimes dreams were best kept as such. Maybe she misheard him.

But Tariq never lied to her. She doubted he was capable of such.

The gate opened. Celeste scurried from her perch to the divine pool nestled below. The Pyres didn’t blaze to life. Statues of the Scribes loomed above as quiet witnesses to this heresy. Some Exiles revered them as deities while others dismissed them as motifs. Celeste knew better. So did Tariq. Their bonds to the Rites were invincible, unless… _unless_ ….

She exhaled and shuffled to a standstill. Water cascaded from the crevasses of the mountain. The moon spilled cool light, sifting through thousands of stained-glass windows. The colors danced in the rippling water. Celeste tilted her head at the display. Was this akin to the exploding stars Tariq mentioned?

Movement from her peripherals caught her attention. Tariq stood on an opposite ledge, the gaping chasm separating them. Water echoed in the expanse. A breeze skittered by, billowing their cloaks and robes as they locked sights.

She longed to chuck her mandolin into the water and fling herself at him. She wanted his arms enveloping her and her lips crushing his before he uttered a sound. She wanted a million chances to be anything but herself if it meant sharing a moment with him.

Whatever he had to say, Celeste prayed it was of value to them.

His lips moved while she stood in silence. He spoke of the sap he met, who spoke of a revolution. Not in the Downside, but the Commonwealth. A complex plan, but a plan, nonetheless. There were pieces in motion; it was a matter of waiting for the stars to shift and align. Slowly, gradually, eventually.

Hopefully.

Celeste almost laughed. This was the most ill-conceived notion he had ever presented to her. And yet she held her tongue; it was a chance— _the_ chance—at shattering their bonds. As flimsy and ideal as it was, a single candle in a storm was still light. Maybe they could protect that flame and kindle it into a wildfire.

“Do you truly believe this will work?” Celeste asked when Tariq tired of speaking. “Do you believe in this Sandalwood?”

He looked nowhere but to her. “I have to, Celeste. How else will we break free?”

The question echoed in her head as they bowed out from the ceremonial grounds. Celeste returned above the gate and Tariq retraced his steps to depart. She frowned as he shrank into the horizon; she longed to travel with him, experience the sights and people she was acquainted with from his stories. The stationary solitude served the Scribes, not herself.

Releasing a breath and closing her eyes, she lifted her mandolin to strum a gentle melody. The chord resonated in her heart. She hadn’t figured out the lyrics yet. How could she when the right words didn’t exist? That was the beauty of music, anyways—to express sentiments comprehended by all tongues and cultures.

The bittersweet ballad flowed and stretched beyond the mountain peaks. Daft fingers strummed as if it was no different from walking, from breathing. Celeste focused on the trail of footprints in the snow. She didn’t expect to find him standing and gazing back at her.

She didn’t expect him to lift his lute and join her song.

Echoes of the melody brought a curve to her lips—always playing in perfect harmony beside her. He played despite his obliviousness to the tune. Their notes intertwined and spoke more in those fleeting minutes than anyone ever uttered throughout the Downside’s entire existence. She found hope in his song, a glimmer of light persisting in the storm. She wished to nestle into his music and kiss each note until they forgot the touch-starved centuries apart.

He retreated into the night, but the air carried his lute’s melody. It echoed throughout Mount Alodiel and within Celeste’s heart. She did well to memorize it. By his next visit, she would polish the lyrics to accompany it. And one day, that next time would be the last, if this Sandalwood was to be trusted.

She hoped so. Until then, she sang to the stars and thought of the man who outshone them all.


End file.
